The Barcode Murders Read online

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  THE BARCODE MURDERS

  A novel by

  SCOTT WITTENBURG

  ©2014 Scott Wittenburg

  Discover other titles by Scott Wittenburg at http://www.scottwittenburg.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events of this book are entirely the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER 1

  The killer still felt a bit unsteady from the night before. He’d had entirely too much to drink and knew he needed to quit. It was affecting his efficiency.

  Not acceptable.

  He stood in the dim light, his senses on overload, keenly aware that at any moment his next victim would emerge from the apartment building. James Wielding was predictable to a fault, yet the killer had to admit that he admired the man’s work ethic. Little wonder why he had gone so far at the company in such little time, with a yearly income of 175K.

  That figure enabled his young family to thrive in an economy that was not so good for the millions of others less fortunate who were struggling just to make ends meet.

  But that would all change very soon.

  The entrance to Wielding’s ailing father’s apartment building was a little over two hundred yards away from where the killer now stood. Through the scope of the high-powered rifle the place looked so close it seemed like he could lob a rock from where he was standing and hit the door handle with pinpoint accuracy.

  Every Wednesday evening, Wielding dropped by his father’s apartment on the way home from work to check in on him. Like clockwork, the younger Wielding arrived no later than six o’clock and promptly left at seven.

  The old man had a weak heart and would probably croak within the next year—he had buried his long-ailing wife only a couple of months ago. Losing a spouse often did that sort of thing to the survivor.

  The killer brought his eye away from the scope just long enough to check the time. It was six-fifty-seven. James Wielding didn’t know it yet, but he had only three minutes more of living to do. Enjoy it while it lasts, Jimmy-Boy.

  This was definitely the best part of all. After all of the research, planning and plotting finally reaching this magical climactic moment. The last few minutes before the hit—that moment when everything in the world suddenly felt right. If only that feeling would last forever! He would be in heaven. Knowing that it was the man’s swan song on earth was absolutely awesome. Indescribable ecstasy. But all too short-lived.

  He would need to get back that feeling again. And the sooner the better.

  The door suddenly opened. The killer rested his finger on the trigger just firmly enough to avoid shooting prematurely. James Wielding came into view as he exited the building. He had a glum expression on his face. Pops must not be having a very good day.

  The killer took aim so that Wielding’s nose was dead center in the crosshairs. He had two seconds to fire before the man would turn left and head down the street to where he had parked his shiny new Mercedes.

  Pop!

  The killer saw the bullet strike its mark, pulverizing Wielding’s head into tiny fragments that literally sprayed outward symmetrically by the sheer velocity of the hit. What was left of the man dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the pavement.

  A direct hit. A perfect kill.

  A thin trail of smoke wafted from the rifle directly in front of the killer. He breathed in the cordite vapor like it had come from the business end of a hash pipe. So sweet the smell.

  He ejected the spent shell and caught it in his latex gloved hand before it hit the ground. But instead of hiding it away, he held it in his palm as he fished in his coat pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a tiny strip of paper and deftly peeled the barcode away from its adhesive backing.

  He then pinched the rifle’s spent shell between his thumb and index finger and meticulously applied the barcode, keeping the label perfectly aligned with the base of the casing. After examining his handiwork closely, he tossed the shell in the nearby bushes, retrieved his rifle and walked away.

  I’m back baby, he thought to himself as he headed to his car.

  CHAPTER 2

  Alan Swansea switched off his iPad and set it on the end table with a sigh. Since purchasing his new toy a month ago he had dropped the local newspaper, purchased a half dozen ebooks, and no longer watched the evening news on the television. Yes, he conceded, technology had changed his little world in a big way and he was okay with that. But he still winced whenever he tried to imagine what life would be like once technology became an even bigger presence in everybody’s lives in the not so distant future.

  He glanced down at Pan lying between his outstretched legs on the recliner, the rescue dog who had literally saved his life while on his only major case. Since Julie’s passing two and a half years ago, the lively mutt had become a welcome addition to this quiet home in Clintonville. Alan reached down and patted the dog’s head affectionately, causing her to pant in her sleep.

  He checked the time and realized he had only fifteen minutes before he had to leave. He dreaded cases like this one, but they paid the bills. It had been quite a while since he’d taken a case that was the least bit interesting and it was times like this that he questioned his decision to give up his web design gig to return to private investigating. Granted, he didn’t miss pounding away on the computer all day and he was doing a bit better financially speaking. But cases that really mattered were few and far between.

  He reached down for the recliner’s lever.

  “Time to get up, girl.”

  On cue, Pan hopped off the chair and followed her master into the kitchen. Alan topped off his coffee and carried it into his living room office. He had decided to work out of his home to avoid having to pay rent for a space downtown. Not only was it economical and convenient, there wasn’t anything happening in the house anyway so why not? He had no wife, no kids, no real social life to speak of. Since losing Julie, he had more or less avoided the dating scene altogether. Julie had been the love of his life, his soul mate that had helped him build this home and made him so happy those precious few years. The mere thought of her could still bring a lump to his throat and he knew he would never love anybody like her again. And quite frankly, he didn’t care to.

  He double-checked the battery strength on the video camera and packed it into its case. He wouldn’t need his Nikon tonight—this would be action surveillance instead of still photography. He had already discovered where Weller’s wife went and when she and her lover got there. All he had to do was capture some of their festivities on film and this case would be history.

  He went into the garage, pressed the door opener and fired up the Honda Pilot. As he backed out of the driveway, he wondered how Greg Weller would take the news. Alan had been through this sort of thing a dozen times, but it never got any easier. Discovering the truth inevitably resulted in anger and pain, yet people sought the truth nonetheless. And he was the messenger—the one being paid to deliver the goods for better or for worse.

  Somebody had to do it.

  Bluetooth connection confirmation for his iPhone appeared on the screen as he turned up the volume on the car’s stereo system. He scrolled through the tu
nes until the Fixx’s One Thing Leads To Another blared out of the speakers. Alan settled back in the seat and tuned into the sounds, his driving on autopilot.

  Twenty minutes later he reached his destination. Snow began to fall as he searched for a safe place to park, pulled over and turned off the engine. He grabbed the video camera bag and walked in the direction of the apartment complex. A moment later he turned and headed down the first street running along the side of the complex, looking back to make sure no vehicles were approaching. George Stillman would be coming down the street in five minutes or so and he wanted to be settled in before that.

  He approached the rear of the complex and headed for the dumpster located on a pad across the alley from the apartments. There was a streetlight nearby but the dumpster stood in its shadows. He looked around again to make sure nobody was in sight and then crept behind the dumpster.

  He took out the video cam, switched it on and peered around the dumpster through the viewfinder. He had a perfect vantage point to both the parking lot and Stillman’s apartment. He zoomed in on the kitchen window and in the dim light could make out a clock on the wall. The snow was falling harder and he grew concerned that visibility might be a problem. He dug into the camera bag, found a lens hood and slid it on to help keep the lens clear and dry.

  Headlights approached and he ducked back behind the dumpster. A car pulled into the parking lot, idled for a moment then shut off. He stole a glance around the dumpster—it was Stillman’s Volvo. Alan pressed the record button on the camera and angled the LCD so that he could watch without being seen. The car’s interior lights come on as the driver’s door opened and George stepped out. Always the gentleman, he walked around and opened the door for his female passenger, who just so happened to be Allison Weller, Greg Weller’s cheating wife.

  Allison giggled as she stepped out of the car. Although she was wearing a heavy wool coat, Alan could see her bare legs as she stood by and waited for George to close the car door. Then the couple walked arm in arm up the walk to the apartment entrance.

  There was already enough video footage to break Greg Weller’s heart but Alan knew from experience it wouldn’t be enough to convince the man that his marriage was in serious trouble. He kept the camera trained on the couple as George searched for his key and opened the apartment door. An instant later Alan zoomed out to include the kitchen window in the viewfinder as the overhead light switched on.

  He zoomed in on the window just in time to capture George entering the kitchen to get a bottle of wine from the fridge. Allison entered the frame and watched George as he took two wine glasses out of the cupboard and set them down, popped the cork and poured. He handed a glass to Allison; she took a sip and chuckled on cue before the two headed out of the kitchen and out of sight.

  George’s apartment was a two-story town house and Alan knew that the couple was now taking the stairs to the second floor. A light suddenly came on in the window above the kitchen. It was George’s bedroom. Although the windows had mini blinds, George didn’t seem to mind leaving them open, even when he had a guest over for a little wine and sex. Alan zoomed in until the frame was filled with the window, waiting for Act One to begin.

  Suddenly Allison came into view. Sure enough, just as the night before, she wasted no time removing her clothes. Alan could see her in perfect profile as she unbuttoned her blouse, let it fall to the floor and gracefully slipped out of her skirt. She had a big smile on her lovely face as she unhooked her bra and held it for a moment before dropping it to the floor. Incredibly, she shook her head just as she had last night, her coquettish expression telling George, who was still off-camera, to hold back for a moment—she had something she wanted to do. Alan could imagine George standing there with his tongue hanging out as Allison proceeded to cup her perfectly rounded breasts in her hands and gyrated her hips until she was certain she had her partner well primed. Then she motioned with a finger for him to join her. A naked and obviously ready George Stillman quickly entered the frame and embraced his date for a moment, then led her out of Alan’s sight.

  For a moment Alan simply stood there with the camera still rolling, aimed at the window. He thought about his client and how this would devastate him. Throughout their initial meeting Alan could tell that Greg Weller was absolutely smitten with his beautiful, much younger wife by the way he had endlessly shared the trite details of their wonderful life together. That was up until he began suspecting that his dear Allison was having an affair. Although his suspicions were based on sound reasoning, Weller still had doubts that she was heartless enough to cheat on him so he wanted to make sure.

  Well Greg, this videotape confirms your greatest fears, Swansea thought.

  Alan lowered the camera and rewound the tape. He watched it play through, certain that any doubts Greg Weller ever had about his wonderful wife would be gone for good.

  He returned to his car and made a mental note to call Weller in the morning to set up an appointment. He had just scanned the playlist for a new song when his phone vibrated. He looked at the caller ID but didn’t recognize it. As he pulled away from the curb he pressed the answer button on the steering column.

  “Alan Swansea,” he said.

  “Hello Mr. Swansea, my name is Janice McPherson. Do you have a moment to speak? Your ad says to call anytime so I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “No bother at all, Ms. McPherson,” Alan replied. “How may I help you?”

  “Do you by any chance remember when a little girl was abducted last year—Chloe McPherson? And they later found her body in a ravine? That was my daughter.”

  “Yes, I do remember. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. I was wondering if I might meet with you regarding my daughter’s death.”

  “Of course.” He thought for a moment and added, “How would tomorrow morning at say, nine o’clock be?”

  “That would be perfect. I see here that your office is in Clintonville. Is it far from High Street?”

  “Just a couple of blocks east. I’ll give you the directions.”

  As he told the woman how to find his place, Alan recalled the Chloe McPherson murder case. It had gotten a lot of press but the murderer had never been found.

  “Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Ms. McPherson.”

  “Janice, please. And thank you Mr. Swansea.”

  “Alan, please. You are most welcome.”

  During the drive home, Alan could feel his pulse quicken. His guess was that Janice McPherson wanted to hire him to find Chloe’s killer and if that were the case he would be more than obliging. However, he had doubts that much would come from his investigation. As he recalled, there had been virtually no clues disclosed in the police’s investigation and the case had gone cold after only a couple of months. After nearly a year and no breaks in the case, there was little chance he would be able to learn any more about the killer than the homicide detectives had.

  But he would certainly give it his best shot.

  He returned to the playlist and chose a classic Stones tune.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning Alan showered and ate a light breakfast before scheduling an afternoon appointment with Greg Weller. He tidied up the living room office a bit in preparation for Janice McPherson’s appointment. He had hired an interior decorator to design his living room so that it emanated a blend of comfortable, functional and professional ambiance for his clientele. Judging by the feedback he’d received thus far, the decorator had succeeded.

  In addition to a leather sofa and matching chairs, an antique mahogany desk occupied a corner of the hardwood-floored room. Behind it was a custom built counter equipped with his iMac, a laser printer and built-in bookshelves. A pair of leather chairs sat on either side of the desk. The flickering flames of a gas log fireplace added a cozy feel to the layout. Pan lay comfortably on the hearth, looking like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  The doorbell rang and Alan noted that Janice
was a little early. He went to the door to greet her.

  “Good morning—Alan Swansea,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Good morning. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Janice McPherson replied.

  Alan led her into the office, took her coat and gestured for her to sit down on the sofa.

  “Can I get you anything? I just made a pot of coffee.”

  “That would be wonderful, thanks.”

  Alan went into the kitchen and placed a thermal carafe of coffee, a couple of mugs, creamer and sugar on a serving tray and returned to the office. He placed the tray on the coffee table and poured them both a cup of freshly ground Kona.

  “This is a lovely place,” she said. “I’ve always liked this old neighborhood.”

  “Thanks. I really like it here.”

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “That’s Pan. I hope you’re not allergic.”

  “Hardly. I have a pair of dogs myself—Bichons. They rule the house.”

  “Pan does a pretty good job at that, too,” Alan grinned.

  Janice McPherson was attractive, in her late thirties with shoulder length platinum blonde hair, and she wore expensive designer clothes. Alan recalled that her husband was a bigwig at UrbanGroup, a financial firm.

  “I read in the paper about those young Russian girls you rescued last year and that’s when I first thought of calling you. But my husband talked me out of it, saying that the police were doing all they could to find Chloe’s murderer and that it would just be a waste of time and money. Travis was absolutely devastated after Chloe’s death yet has seemed almost apathetic toward finding her killer. To him our daughter is gone forever and he can’t get past that. Chloe was a real daddy’s girl and they were very, very close. Finding the killer won’t bring her back, Travis feels, so he’s not particularly concerned about it. I on the other hand am concerned and I want to see the bastard fry for what he did, pardon my language. I finally put my foot down and told him that we’ve put this off long enough, that I was going to give you a call.”